The Sweater Curse Ch 6 by Leanne Dyck

WARNING: This story contains adult content

Chapter Five: As I drifted from household to household, I brought my knitting needles

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The Sweater Curse

Chapter Six

    I was finally on my own. Yahoo! I could now claim the career path to which students with my eclectic education were entitled—teaching English in Japan, shepherding in Iceland, and guiding tourists in Greece. All I needed to do was learn Nihongo, Icelandic, or Greek. I wasn't interested in further study. Instead, I began my illustrious career in retail. 

    A rapidly aging bottled blonde pulled a pair of jeans off the rack. She wasn't only trying to deceive others but also herself. The image of her squeezing her blubber into those jeans made me want to—. I bit my tongue. “These jeans are sized rather small.” I offered her a size sixteen.

    “Do you think I’m fat? I’m a size eight. I’ve always been a size eight.”

    She was angry. She was also my boss’s mother-in-law. This I learnt immediately before I was told to find a new job. I found one in a local bar. There, old winos fondled me while I served them more alcohol. I kept my job until I arrested one advance by kicking an old guy right where it would hurt him the most. Yeah, my life was a thrill a minute.

    I’m just not cut out to deal with the public, I thought, and found a position as a personal assistant. It was a good job until I discovered what a jerk my boss was. He wanted me to suck up for a wage. I was pretty and smart, a fact he couldn’t handle. When I was forced to point out his idiocy, he didn’t appreciate my honesty.

    “You’re fired,” he snapped, and I began looking for yet another job.

    I’d been paid in quarters, but I had million-dollar tastes. My solution was frequent visits to the gated community of my youth. Elevating me to this socioeconomic status was the one useful gift Mother imparted to me.

    “Welcome home,” my former neighbours cheered, and the champagne flowed.

    I floated into these parties, knowing I could have anyone I wanted. Men were drawn to me like cat hair to black yarn.

    “Hey, sexy. You’re looking hot tonight.” The men who circled around me like eagles to roadkill smiled. I tried not to notice the drool.

    I selected the charismatic and the intriguing, not always the richest. Their age and marital status weren’t important. I happily overlooked the grooved ring fingers, the wedding photos. In fact, it was a relief. It meant they didn’t hear the wedding march each time they looked at me.

    The wives, however, didn’t share my joy.

    “He’s my man. Get your grubby paws off him,” they hissed at me, venom dripping from their fangs.

    I knew how to play the game because they had taught me the rules. But when I played with their men, they took it personally. They insisted that I stop, but I couldn’t. I enjoyed the game too much. Unable to stop me, they tried steering me in a different direction. “He’s Matthew Brown,” my hostess, the wife of Judge Reginald Masterson, whispered in my ear as I watched a handsome brunette. “A hardworking corporate lawyer on his way to making partner.”

    “Oh, juicy.” I couldn’t hide it—I was interested.

    I don’t know what happened. Did she give him the signal? Whatever it was, he was suddenly there, beside me, drink in hand.

    “Hi, I’m Matthew.” He didn't look me in the eye. He was far more interested in my other body parts.

    “I’m Gwen.” And the rest of me is up here, I was tempted to point out.

    “Nice to meet you, Gwen.” He told my body.

    “You’re a corporate lawyer.”

    “Oh, yes, honey, but let’s not pretend you’d be able to understand anything about my career. Let’s pick a topic you’ll enjoy, like… I don’t know… What soap opera do you watch? I hate to see you go, but...” 

    He wasn't original, but he was determined. He showered me with luxurious gifts—furs, jewellery, furniture, cars. When I milked him dry, I moved on to Devin and Stephen and Philip and... There was no end to the guys who thought they could do what others couldn't—trap me permanently. 

The Sweater Curse

Chapter Seven

Artists were invited to our parties.

While on a walk with my dog Abby, we turned onto Dalton Street and reached the ferry terminal parking lot. I looked right and feasted my eyes on this beautiful billboard...

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My favourite show...

Aster`s Husband Ch 6 by Leanne Dyck

 Chapter five: When old love dies...

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Chapter six

Darlene takes me home. Down a winding road and up a hill, the grand old dame has been passed from generation to generation in her family. She inherited it from a maiden aunt. Oh, what secrets it hides under its creaky floorboards and between its walls.

"Let's make supper." Darlene heads down the hall to her country kitchen, and I follow close behind. 

The warm evening invites us to enjoy our meal on the veranda in padded wicker chairs. Mouthful after mouthful, I can’t help thinking about Darlene’s legs wrapped around my torso. And I know she feels the same.

She takes my hand and leads me down the hall to her bedroom. I watch her fold the quilt and tuck it into the trunk at the foot of the bed. A smile on her lips, she pulls me to her, but...

I hear Aster’s voice so clearly; it’s like she’s in bed with me. No, not like that... I’m not comfortable when you... I try to dislodge myself from my wife’s ceaseless instructions. Darlene isn’t Aster. But what if... What if we can’t? I have to warn her. I have to let her know that if it can’t happen, it’s my fault, not hers. “Sometimes I have trouble...” 

Hold on—what's she doing now? Wow. Aster would never... But now.

Entwined, we dance like our bodies are meant for only this.

I lose my heart, my mind... I lose control. Complete and total control. I never thought it could be this way. I only hoped. And now I know it can.

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New love is born

Chapter seven (last chapter)

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Without a reader

A writer's words mean

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Sharing My Author Journey...

Writers love words. ...right?

Mrs. Kenneth James Stevens Wants A Baby by Leanne Dyck (Ch 6)

 Chapter five: So she did find him. That's a relief. He was on a bench reading about Mayne Island--an island Aster hates. Her hatred of the island begs the question, why was she on that ferry sailing toward it?

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Chapter six

Aster had agreed to spend the Victoria Day long weekend on Mayne Island only for the sake of their marriage. Kenneth James had begged her to let him show it to her. “I promise, you’ll fall in love with it.”

Aster had her doubts.

She enjoyed the ballet, the symphony, fine dining. What could a remote island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean offer her? What? She feared she already knew the answer. Nothing. Yet she had agreed to go with him, thinking that it would be nice to spend time alone together without any of the usual distractions—but if this was an example of how he was going to treat her. Well, she didn’t know why she had come.

With a huff, she pulled her knitting out of her purse. Some of the stitches fell off her needle, and she wasn’t surprised. That was simply how this nightmare of a day was going. Thankfully, she was a skilled knitter and was easily able to collect all the fallen.

Soon, the only sound the couple made was the clicking of her needles and the periodic turning of the pages of his book.

“What the—?” Kenneth James’ comment pulled Aster’s attention away from her knitting and down to the floor. A yellow plastic dump truck had bumped into his ankles.

“Truck. Truck. Truck.” A curly blond-haired toddler ran after his toy but stopped about a foot away from the strange man.

“Well, hello, there.” Kenneth James smiled. “Is this your truck?”

“Mi-ne.”

“Here you go then." Kenneth James turned the truck around and rolled it to the boy. “Vroom.” 

“Truck. Truck. Truck.” The boy used his entire body to stop the truck and rolled it back. Back and forth the truck travelled between the man and the boy.

Thoroughly entertained by the game, Aster set her knitting on her lap.

Few men would have the patience or the aptitude to play with a child, but Kenneth James did. Aster found herself fantasying that the boy was their son. She ran her hand across her knitting. She considered ripping it all out, recasting the stitches, and knitting a baby blanket. After all, they weren’t growing any younger. If they were going to have children, they needed to start soon. What better time than this weekend?

“Daniel, what are you doing all the way over here?” A woman said, coming to collect her son. “I’m so sorry about this,” she apologized to Kenneth James.

“Not at all.” He offered the woman a smile, and she returned it.

Aster waited until she was once again alone with her husband before broaching the subject. “I watched you with that little boy. You’d make an excellent father.”

“Say what now?”

“We’re not getting any younger, you know. We could start trying tonight or tomorrow morning. I can’t remember. Do you like it in the morning or at night?”

“It? What it?”

“You know.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “It.”

“Oh, you mean sex.”

“Kenneth James, don’t be vulgar.”

“Sex isn’t vulgar. Not if you’re doing it right.”

“Kenneth James Stevens, would you please lower your voice?"

“The movies. The TV. The Internet. Everyone screams." With a smirk on his face, he mouthed "sex," and "you want your husband to lower his voice?”

“Yes, please.”

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Mrs. Kenneth James Stevens Wants A Baby

Chapter seven

And so Aster has shared her desire to have a child with her husband--which seems to have caught him off guard. Will he embrace the plan? Will they become parents? Will Aster make a good mother or...?

Callie Ch 6 by Leanne Dyck (inspired by the writing life) "In a Restaurant"

 Chapter Five: Aurora abandons sleep to write. What would you do to develop your passion? What would you sacrifice? What would you endure? 

Callie

Chapter Six

Authoring a steady stream of stories was a dream come true. But at such an expense. It had been too long since I'd had a good night's sleep. I had very little energy to do anything but write. If I didn't find a job soon, I'd starve. I was forced to take a cold hard look at things, and when I did, I came to a difficult conclusion. I had to give the necklace back. 

But... if only... maybe... I made one last desperate attempt to get Callie to listen to reason. "I’m exhausted," I told her. "I need to sleep.”

She kept me up all night long—telling one story after another. I had to take the necklace back. Thankfully the bookstore’s address was listed at the top of the sales receipt.

Receipt in hand, I walked the streets of my neighbour. I went to the correct address, but the store had vanished. In its place, a colourful abstract mural pulled me off the street and into a restaurant—The Starving Artist. Inside was just as vibrant as the mural, with pottery and sculptures displayed on shelves and paintings on walls.

I stood captivated just inside the door. I stood there long enough for a server to notice me.

“Right this way,” she told me.

“No, I...” I couldn’t afford to eat there. If I didn’t find a job soon, the only place I’d be finding my food would be in the nearest dumpster.

“Oh, you’re here about the job.”

Job? “Yes, the job.”

I caught the words “Fifteen dollars an hour plus—” and quickly replied, “I can start immediately.”

"The restaurant is run by an artist collective." We stopped in front of a painting of a cityscape done in abstract—blocks of white represented skyscrapers, black dots for people, and vehicles with red dot headlights. "This is one of mine."

“I really like it.”

“Thanks. What do you do?”

Had I had more than a blink of sleep, I’m sure I would have been able to come up with something better to say than “I write.”

“Open mic night’s the last Friday of every month,” she told me.

Read Chapter Seven

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And on Monday, August 15...

Tintamarre

an article by Simon Thibault

'We clang pots and pans, honk car horns, hoot and holler, to make as much noise

Is the Reverend Dead? Chapter 6 (a mystery inspired by remote island life) by Leanne Dyck

 chapter five: Mrs. Hazelton visits the manse and sees a man Ms. Matthews identifies as Reverend Paulson.

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Is the Reverend Dead?

Chapter Six

Arthur reaches for the teapot in the centre of the table and removes the cozy. He pours us each a cup and then passes me the plate of freshly baked Icebox cookies.

It doesn’t take him long to pick up on my mood. “What’s the matter? Is the Reverend dead—again?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You’re...not sure?”

“Ms. Matthews wanted me to believe that the man in the bed was the Reverend—and that he was alive, breathing, with his head still attached to his body.” I add two cubes of sugar to my tea. “But she didn’t let me wake him. She wanted me to trust her, but how can I?” I look out the window. Large raindrops slide down the windowpane.”If the Reverend really is alive, he’ll give a sermon. If he’s dead, church will be cancelled. I’m going to pray and wait for Sunday.”

Arthur puts his half-eaten cookie on his saucer and leaves the table. He returns with our beat-up old Scrabble game box. It’s part of our daily routine. Our attempt to keep Alzheimer’s at bay. Arthur picks an ‘A’ out of the bag. Lucky man.

I choose a ‘D’. I keep picking letters and end up with an impossible mess—too few vowels and too many consonants. How can I spell anything?

Arthur strings his letters together to form ‘LAND’. I build down from the ‘D’, adding an ‘I’ and an ‘E’.

“Get your mind off the Rev’s accident.”

“Accident? It was murder.” I pull two ‘L’s out of the bag.

“Or you’ve been reading too many Louise Penny mysteries.” He uses my ‘E’ to make ‘KITE’.

Working down from the ‘K’, I get rid of another ‘I’ and both ‘L’s. “It has to be Ms. Matthews. She had opportunity and motive.”

Arthur foolishly wastes an ‘S’ and makes ‘LANDS’. “Do you really think a member of the congregation could have committed murder?”

“She told me herself that she was responsible for the Reverend’s glass. She could easily have put the poison in the glass and washed it out, afterwards.”

“Thou shalt not kill. Remember that. Ms. Matthews is a God-fearing woman.”

“She didn’t drink from the glass. And why? Because she knew it held poison. That’s why. And she had motive. From the time she set foot on this island, she’s wanted to take over the church. She’s the head of the Woman’s Auxiliary and the altar guild and...and… But that wasn’t enough for her. Oh, no, she wanted to be the Reverend. And now nothing stands in her way. Nothing but...but...me.”

“Helen, you have to get a hold of yourself.” Arthur places his hand on my wrist. “The Reverend had a weak heart. He had a pacemaker. It wasn’t murder. He had a heart attack.”

Of course, I didn’t like thinking of Ms. Matthews as power-hungry, as a murderer. But…

What are the signs of a heart attack? Was the Reverend clutching his chest when he fell? Had he been perspiring?

There hadn’t been a murder. There was no murderer. God had called his son home, I tell myself. I try to convince myself.

But Ms. Matthews had reached for the Reverend’s glass. Reached for but not drunk from it. Why? Why had she told everyone that the Reverend was alive when he was dead? Why was she hiding the body? Why!

Because she murdered the Reverend. There’s no other explanation.

“I’m the only one standing in the way of Ms. Matthews taking over the church.” I gulp. “What if she tries to kill again—the Blues, the organist or me? It’s up to me to stop her. Is the Reverend dead? I have to learn the truth before it’s too late. And there’s only one way to do that. I have to get into the manse.”

“Oh, Helen, leave it be.” That’s easy for him to say. He isn’t responsible for solving this mystery. That’s my cross to bear.

***

On Friday, my oldest son, Jeff, and his family join us for supper. I’m pleased to see them but prepare for my daughter-in-law’s nagging.

Oh, no, we can’t have that. Does that have water in it? We can’t have water. It contains gluten. She’s so silly. No one has died at my dining room table yet.

Marne hands me a plastic container. “Almond cookies for dessert. No eggs, no flour, no gluten.”

Are they made of cardboard? Have eggs joined sugar, meat, and gluten on her list of killers?

Cookies littering crumbs, my granddaughters scamper off to the playroom. My fifteen-year-old grandson Conner teeters back on his chair eyes glued to a fist-sized black box.

Conservation lulls, Arthur fills the silence with, “Granny’s had an interesting week.”

“Oh, really?” Jeff is quick—as always—to pick up his father’s lead. “What’s happened, Mom?”

Arthur begins to tell them, “The Rev—.”

I jump in with the magic word. “Yes, the church.”

And it works its magic. Jeff says, “You’re not the only one who’s living an action-packed life.” He nods at his son.

“He’s just mixing with the wrong crowd.” Marne speaks over Jeff. She can be so rude.

“Breaking and entering.” Jeff squeezes the words in.

“I can’t believe my grandson broke into a house.” I put the proper amount of dismay in my voice but can’t help thinking how helpful Conner’s new skill could be.

“Oh, you better believe it. Thankfully Officer Boyd let him off with a warning.” Jeff adds, “I told Conner he was lucky he was being raised by us and not you guys.”

I can’t recall being especially hard on him and he wasn’t an angel—mysterious dents in the car, cut classes, and more. But I don’t remind him of his tainted past.

Marne follows the men into the living room, leaving me behind with a table full of dirty dishes.

Conner brings the chair’s legs back to the floor and stuffs his black box into his pocket. “Granny, I can dry the dishes.” He has always been Granny’s little kitchen helper. He finds a tea towel. “You know, Granny, we didn’t really do anything wrong. It was this big summerhouse. Nobody ever goes there. We just wanted to see inside. That’s all.”

“We?”

“Paisley and me.”

“Paisley?”

“Just someone I hang around with, sometimes," he's quick to tell me. "Boyd showed up before we could even get inside. He caught me hanging from a window ledge like some kinda monkey.” 

We share a laugh.

I see him sliding open a window and slipping into the manse. It’ll be so easy, for him. Just in and out, just like that. It’ll be fun, for him. Something for us to do together. I’ll keep watch and he’ll peep in at Reverend Paulson. Simple. Afterwards, I could take him to the bakery for a treat. “I guess you learned your lesson.”

“Yes, Granny,” he says in a sing-song voice.

“Just to say, you’ve learned from your first try. You’ll be more successful next time.”

“Huh?” He just stands there, tea towel in hand, staring at me.

“Granny is just joking,” Arthur says walking into the kitchen. “Right, Granny?”

I force a laugh. “Oh, yes, of course.” And kiss that plan goodbye.

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Chapter Seven

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The Other Side (short fiction) Ch. 6 by Leanne Dyck

 Ch. 5 Owen comes home from playing hockey and discovers that his and Mara's shoes have been damaged. 

Read chapter six right now...

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The Other Side

Chapter 6

I came home from work to the sound of Owen humming and singing, "Don't worry be happy."

The minute he saw me, he handed me the newspaper. An ad was circled in red. 

"Split level. Three bedrooms. Master bedroom has an en suite and walk-in closet. Large open-style dining room/living room. Spacious yard. Move-in immediately." It was a dream home, but, "We can't afford this."

"Sure we can. The rent's only two hundred dollars more than we're paying to live in this nightmare."

"Sweet!"

We hugged. 

"I phoned the real estate agent and she'll show it to us tomorrow."

***

Real estate agent Ms. Strong, in a power suit and carrying a briefcase, met us at the garden gate. Flower beds lined the sidewalk. The flowers were tiny and colourful. Beyond that, I couldn't describe them. I'm not a gardener. The only flowers I can identify are tulips, daffodils, and roses. A rose bush with bright red petals stood a few feet away from the front door. I breathed in the rich fragrance.

Ms. Strong unlocked the craved wood front door and ushered us into the foyer--yes, there was a foyer--and up the curving staircase to the living room/dining room. That room alone was the size of our entire basement apartment.

Besides the master bedroom, there were two more bedrooms. Two! Enough for both Owen and me to have a study or a home library or a craft room or... Whatever we wanted. I wanted to stay calm but it was so hard. I'd already fallen head over heels in love with the house.

Ms. Strong lead us into the kitchen. The stove looked brand-new--like it was right off the showroom floor. Through the kitchen, we went to the backyard--a carpet of thick green grass, birds sang, a spruce hedge provided privacy. I squeezed Owen's hand and he squeezed back. We both loved the place.

We went back into the living room/ dining room. The first-floor roof extended past the living room's picture window. Looking out the window, I noticed something shiny. "Is that a...a...knife?"

"They must have moved out really quickly," Owen speculated, "Out the door and even out the window."

"And the walls look like they--."

Ms. Strong cut me off, "I'm authorized to offer you a reduction on the rent if you agree to paint the walls--the former tenants were smokers--and if you don't badger me with questions."

"Lower the--?" Owen shot me a look--a quick translation, shut up.

"How much?" Owen's voice was calm. He's a good poker player.  "This is a large room. It's going to need a lot of paint." Owen was trying for a royal flush. 

"Nine hundred."

"Just nine hundred, eh. It'll take us a long time to paint this large room."

"Eight."

"What's downstairs?"

"You saw the foyer. There's also a finished basement."

"Well, can we see it?"

"It's a basement--painted drywall in the rec. room, linoleum flooring throughout."

"I'd like to see it."

"I do have other potential renters due to arrive within the hour."

"Owen, other--."

There was that look again.

"We're interested in renting this house," Owen told her, "but I'd like to see the basement first."

"Seven-fifty," Ms. Strong said as she led us down the stairs to the foyer and through a set of doors to the basement. 

"This would be a perfect space for your office," I told Owen and got that look again. 

"How big is this room?" Owen asked Ms. Strong.

As Ms. Strong consulted her notes and helped Owen locate the phone jacks, I explored further. A door off the hall led to a laundry room. Washer, dryer, the same old, same old, but something about it pulled me inside. 

Voices drifted into the room from the hall. 

Owen looked in at me. "Oh, Mara, you're in here."

"This is just the laundry room," Ms. Strong informed us. "You've seen the entire house. Shall we go back upstairs?"

For some unexplainable reason, I had no desire to leave the laundry room. 

"What's up with all those racks on the ceiling?" Owen asked.

"The former tenants stored their camping equipment and kayak down here. Now if that's everything, I do have those other--."

I looked at Owen; Owen looked at me. "We'll take it," we said. We signed the tenancy agreement and the house was ours. 

Chapter seven

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